It begins with burning. It begins with the sordid smell of searing flesh, the hollow cry from blood stained lips. The glowing poker clatters to the wooden table of painful delights. The fist comes. Again. Then again. The Confessor is especially arduous, desperate. The Prince had given orders. The Holy Expedition had run dry. They needed to find the well. The Septi’s chanting is a ripple against the tide of terror. The sacred prayers are lost in the thunder of his heart, the quivering of the iron chains on his feet. The pain is excruciating. Exquisite.

How much longer? 

He swallows the cry in his throat.

How much longer. . ?

How- The whip cracks. Clouded eyes awaken. Snot. Blood. Sweat. Pain. His white eyes bloom with tears. More whispering. More screaming. More chanting. This is repentance. The aroma of sweat and agony perfume the crowded chamber. They scream at their god to cleanse him. The whip cracks again. He flinches. Pain blooms. He can feel it quivering beneath his skin. The foul art… the blessing. He is close. Close to god. Close to god. He sees nothing but darkness…closer -  Then. Light blossoms. There is no sacred well, but – 

He sees her… The girl so long before…

She is a woman now..and-

She is dying.

. . .

It begins with burning. The stench of ash and bubbling flesh. Screams of agony. Betrayal. Semra realizes that it is her own voice that screams. Her body staggers forward by will alone. “Sujin.” His name is a prayer in her scorched and bloodied throat. The poison crawls like liquid iron in her veins. Her arm is a ruin of scalded gore. All around her, the drinking house crumbles. The bright yellow of flames swallows everything. Burning. They were all burning.

The barman lies a charred husk, her dagger sticking from his treacherous gut. Her guards have had their throats slit. Her own throat is a ruin, oozing red into her chest. Her hand is pressed there, eyes blindly swirling around her in panic. The rest of the foreign cowards had fled, the door blocked behind them; the tavern set ablaze. Smoke billows overhead like a storm. Semra laughs, bloodied hands slapping weakly against the only door that had not yet been swallowed up in the yellow terror.  Her body tumbles against the door, her head spinning. She is trapped. Slowly burning to death. And  Sujin….  Sujin is in danger. Sujin …If only she could just make it to the temple. The rest of them are there. The rest of the guard, and all the foreigners. She needs to warn him…to warn all of them – 

. . .

Aerin can hear the whisper of the Septi in the chamber around him. He feels his body stiffen like a corpse, his bones twisting sharply, feels himself hover off the table. He can hear them all in the lull that washes over him then; the hushed gasps; the hurried prayers as they make samket; the horror in their whispers. They all fade away as he sinks into the sea of warming light. There is no pain here. The dark chamber is chased away by warm amber, and then he is swallowed up in scalding yellow -

 It is the sun. Aerin squints, hands reaching up to cup his eyes in the blinding glare. It is afternoon by all appearances. The sun sits high, and brutal overhead. He is no longer in the monastery…no longer in Nugara. The air is dry and parched here. The wind is limp. He is outside, barefoot. The haunting of barren hillside and olive trees guard the distance. The sky is a hollow shade of blue. He stands in ashes. He turns to see behind him.  Aerin startles. Destruction…. everywhere.

The charred husk of what used to be a stronghold looms. All that remains is black soot and crumbling rubble. The tattered remnants of a sigil flutters limp against what used to be a wall. He barely makes out the three-pronged spear stitched into the scorched fabric. Confusion curls in his belly. This was the sigil of the Ildians, the pagan nation of merchants and blacksmiths. And next to it, coiled in the dust, lies the flag of Aligor, the horse rearers, and the golden serpent of the seafaring Seroki. His eyes glance further on. His stomach sinks, seeing the scores of flags burnt, lying limp in the charcoal dirt, torn asunder. He knows with dread in his heart, this is no ordinary stronghold. This is Dareth, Citadel of the South. The holy city of the pagans. There was to be a pilgrimage here, this time of year. Aerin gapes at the scene before him. The city had been razed to the ground.

 He walks through ash and rubble, his barefoot steps leave no mark in the ash behind him. This is the realm of dreams; the whisper of visions past and future. He goes through the burned gates, passes by the steepled remnants of a temple, its stone belly caved in, its painted windows now lying in shattered pieces, twinkling in the ash and dust like jewels in the high sun. Beyond it, he sees the survivors. Scores of pagans lingered on the temple steps, cloaked in somber garments, their dark skin smeared with soot and grief. Mourners lined a gaping pit nearby, their wailing loud and hollow in the dry heat. He blinks, a sickened feeling burning into chest when he realizes just what this is. A mass grave. He begins to turn away, but his feet do not move. The grave…it pulls at him. 

Aerin blinks, and he is suddenly beside it; beside the wailing men and women, hovering by the open pit. White eyes stare into the dark glare of death. 

His body goes cold. There are hundreds of them here. Men, women…children even, their bodies all wrapped in death shrouds, lying like hundreds of bone white cocoons in the pit black earth. The stench of them is old, and sickening - the scent of burnt flesh, and suffering. Aerin stares, eyes wide and filled with horror. His hands are shaking. His eyes are frozen. He cannot tear them away. There is something here. He can feel it. Something that whispers beyond; the blossom in the ink black sea. The whisper of life. There is a strange panic thrumming in his chest. He knows somehow that she is here – 

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. . .

There is nothing left of the fires or the ash and smoke, only darkness. Something swelters overhead like melted ore. The swim of voices warble in a distant lull. Semra cannot hear them. Her eyes are wide, unseeing. She is wrapped in some sort of itching fabric. Sarcobi linen. A death shroud.  The scent of incense covers the stench of rotting and decay around her. Her body is wooden, carefully lopped against the charred remnants of what had been her kinsmen. She is dead. The breath will leave her surely. They will cover her in earth and she will suffocate, or if the gods were merciful, they would claim her sooner.

One last breath, and she will drift into the voidless black of the Nether. She will find Sujin there, the rest of the slaughtered kinsmen; perhaps even the Lord Keeper of Dareth himself. There is no breath in her ruined throat. The beat of her heart slows, dulls into a whisper. The dreamless black sinks into her like a pool of deep dark water, but the pain. It is dull, throbbing, endless. It clenches into her bone marrow and blooms like an arrow in her chest. It does not let her go.

Awaken! 

 She gasps. The breath is a ghastly crackle. She hears the shrill scream of a mourner, forgotten prayer fading into hurried yelling –

Aerin sees it. The moment she wakes. The moment her stiffened body twitches in the lifeless sea of white linen. He hears it, the screaming of the mourners, but then the gulf tightens. It pulls, dragging him away. He is tugged into a whirlwind like a leaf in a storm. Dareth is swept away suddenly. He finds himself back in Nugara. 

He is not in the Chamber of Repentance. There is no pain. There are no horrors of whips and fire. There is no praying Septi, no Confessor to bless him with the pain of penance. He is outside the monastery. Barefoot. The grit of damp grass and uneven stones are hard on his feet. His slender frame is cloaked in the thin gray linens of acolyte robes. It is night. 

The sky is a moonless slate. The air is thick with the promise of rain. The courtyard is deserted, yet, he can hear the din of drunken celebration from the grand square just beyond the monastery walls. Afaalia. The grand feast seems to be underway. All of Nugara would be out tonight, reveling for their Crown Prince and his new bride.

He walks alone, the mask forgotten. There is no one here to see his face. There is no one there, save the cursed companion. Aerin stares up at the visage gaping down from the steeple above the door of the Praying Hall. Back in the Chamber, with his failing eyesight, he can see little more than a blur, but here, in vision, the image is crystal clear.

 Dark gray skin, fire red eyes, face contorted in perpetual agony. A demon. Dead. Slain by the order of the Holy Bestowed – now free from the sin of abominable magic. In death its mangled head now served the holy order, their repentant guardian. Aerin frowns and makes samket, crossing his palms in blessing. His gut twists with unease. This is wrong. 

 He knows somehow… Somehow… that this poor creature had once been a man…

“Forgive us.” The words are whispered behind clenched teeth. Bile climbs in his throat. He turns away. 

‘Forgiveness?’

He blinks, startled. The demon? He whips around. The demon is dead, unmoving. He turns away, confused. Then, he freezes.

“You’re here…” he gasps.

It is her. 

She is here, standing stiff by the parapet. 

She is a child, barely four feet high; just as small as he first remembered her. The child with the sun gold eyes, and soil brown skin. The dark angel. 

She is cloaked in red. Her gold eyes shine frigid, lips pulled tight. 

‘What manner of forgiveness deserves the sow of man? His fallen state is writ in dust, trodden by his many sins.’

Aerin blinks in recognition. She is quoting the sacred text. The Book of Desolations. He knows the words by heart.

‘What manner-‘

“-of sin shall he make his trade? His soul for riches, his blood for mercy?” Aerin whispers. “When there becomes no offering left to serve his endless hunger, for those that seek his heart, he shall hide in dust, fearing his own shadow. So is the man who slays to whom he swears. Blood and destruction befall him, and all his house is –“

‘ is wrought asunder. Such is the law – ‘

“Of blood.” He finishes, dread washing over him. His heart thunders in his chest. Panic twists in his gut.

The child smiles then, grim and manic. Her teeth are black as tar, her dark skin glistening in her blood red robes. He sees then, in her hands a shining golden helm, its eyes glowing like burning coals.

The voice that comes then is inhuman. A chorus growled from the shadows.

“Behold she cometh in the hour of sorrow and rain – “

Aerin lurches as sudden pain blooms in his chest. He clutches himself, blinks in horror at his now red stained palm. He looks down. Stumbles. A broken dagger is lodged in the middle of his chest, its blue blade stained red. The crimson pools into the gray linen of his robes. He falls to the grass. His vision blurs. 

The angel walks forward, golden eyes staring cruelly above him. Aerin chokes, spitting red and bile. She is no longer a child, but a woman now, shoulders square with rage, yellow eyes glowing mercilessly. She lifts the helm above her head.

‘No. ‘ The words bubble between heaving breaths. “Please-”

The helm slides into place.  

Then darkness – 

. . .

She is dreaming again. She is a child, back in Talgrod. The moon is full and low. The desert wind is cold on her cheek. She sees the high stone pillars, the lofty scripts carved into the vaulted ceiling above, the sigil of the Many Eyed god. Semra knows this is Saint Agrah’s temple. The boy is there. Again. He is small and frail as she remembers, silver hair fanning around his shoulders, eyes white like burning stars. His milky skin glows ghostly in the moonlight. Blood red lips thinned in a frown.

“What do you want?”  she questions. He tilts his head towards her, then turns, fingers pointing towards the altar.

 She turns her gaze.

Horror stops in her throat. Sujin. Her brother is dead. Mounted on the altar like an offering. Headless. His limbs are twisted in the supine pose of the Saint of Sorrows. His dark brown skin is charred black by smoke and soot. What is left of his chest is carved hollow. His heart is missing. His guts lay spilled onto the cold stone floor, pulsing and writhing like worms. 

It is magic, dark and forbidden.

“Dal at Ga al….”

 The chorus is eerie and demanding from the boy. Magic shivers in the air in whispers. “Dal at Ga al.”

 The moon boy smiles, revealing a row of knife-like teeth.  In his hands is the cold gleam of a battered helm. The Night Helm. She knows what it means. What they want. The little boy…the death child, hands it to her. 

Semra jerks awakes to the cold gleam of the rising sun washing down into the cave. The rest of the flagmen are shuffling about, tending to the puttering fire, and watering their horses. Her ruined arm is bandaged in linens and stinks of ointment, beneath her robe. Her throat has been wrapped beneath her high collar. She turns out of her makeshift cot, frowns. She sees the youth standing by the mouth of the cave, mulling over a map of the continent. The burn scar on his cheek glares pink in the early morning light. Semra swallows at the sight. Isae. 

This boy is the only one left. Her brother’s last vassal, now…her own. Her only kinsman. Her fingers find the scroll tucked into her satchel. Her thumb rubs over the Elder’s seal. She remembers the death child. His burning white eyes.

“Dal at Ga al” 

The words are a murmur on her lips. She frowns. The ancient Phearan was clear to her. 

The Law of Blood.